


The Road Forged By Legacy

by goresque



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canonical Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Vampirism, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-02 21:48:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15805227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goresque/pseuds/goresque
Summary: Optimus Prime has returned to the Well. Megatron is in exile. They've left their broken factions to pick up the pieces of their torn planet.Ratchet struggles to adjust to civilian life, mourning Prime as he reestablishes medical care for all of Cybertron's returning populace. Megatron is still out in the wilds, festering and brooding. Ratchet, frankly, hopes he rusts out there.Nothing goes according to plan.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't abandoned Animals, or my other works. I'm struggling with writing things right now, and I thought posting something new might give me the motivation to continue working on different projects. I've been holding onto this one for a while, and I think it's ready to be released.
> 
> Comments and criticism are welcome.

Ratchet was never very sentimental. He was vehement in his efforts not to be, actually. Mecha who pondered the past and let it poison them were mecha who died with regrets. Ratchet had enough of those in his functioning, and he was adamant about keeping himself focused on the future. 

Even with a philosophy as cut and dry as that, Ratchet still wanted for the past. His aged struts yearned for days with little work and little sadness. He wanted. He had been left wanting by the slow, crushing reality of rebuilding Cybertron- without his Prime, on top of it.

He was pulled from his internal monologue by a knock on the door. His battle protocols surged online in response, engine revving as his onboard guns- didn’t deploy. 

Right. Peace times. 

As Ratchet looked up he found himself face to face with optics that were new, young; optics that hadn’t seen the worst of what war had to offer. That thought opened a floodgate of memories he’d have rather left undisturbed.

“Doctor Ratchet? Sir?”

Ratchet shook the tension from his pauldrons. “First Aid. What can I do for you?”

“I needed to run this file by you, before I send it to the IED.” First Aid was tentative in offering up the datapad to his mentor. Ratchet ignored the way First Aid’s hands shook when he took the file with little gentleness, thumbing through the file. 

“Assault? Where did this happen?”

“Down south, near the Valley of Death,” First Aid offered up, a hint of excitement as Ratchet questioned him. 

“It says he was attacked outside of Iacon. Why would this idiot go about calling the Enforcers about some mechanimal attack?” Ratchet looked up from the datapad, hovering over the page that needed his glyph. 

“Ah… Mechanimal?” First Aid’s visor tilted just slightly, and Ratchet could tell the poor kid was beating himself up for even writing up the file. 

“What did he say happened?” Ratchet prompted, skimming back to the official statement. “Here it says he was assaulted by something with claws. Stands to believe it’s a mechanimal, doesn’t it? Considering all mecha returning to Cybertron have been demilitarized.”

“He says when he was crossing through the Valley of Death to south Iacon he was ambushed by a feral mech,” First Aid said, his voice rather quiet. Ratchet listened carefully.  “But he also had syk in his system. He swears up and down he doesn’t use, and I didn’t find any damage consistent with syk use in his tanks or his hydraulics.”

“So the junkie’s lying. Long term use isn’t always the issue. Really, Aid, give the mechling some uppers to help with withdrawal and then we’ll send him on his way- hopefully in the direction of an addictions clinic. Poor bolt might find some real help there.” Ratchet dropped the datapad in his waste bin, and gave First Aid a nod. Then, when his apprentice didn’t leave, a rather stern look. 

First Aid dropped it.

* * *

Under cover of night, Ratchet made the drive down south to the Valley of Death.

He didn’t know what he expected, but the pitiful, starving mech that lay curled up at the back of a shallow cavern wasn’t it; tucked away just enough to shield himself from view or the acid rains that plagued the valley.

Megatron lay with his body curled in, the broad expanse of his intimidating back facing Ratchet. He looked small. Smaller than Megatron- the Scourge of Kaon, the Demon of the Pits, the Slagmaker, the Emperor of Destruction, and now Spawn Of Unicron- should be. 

“You’re going to get caught.”

Ratchet tried to scold. He tried to sound stern, sure of himself. Instead, it came out tired, hollow; Ratchet could feel age wearing down his frame as he approached, turned, and sat beside Megatron’s motionless form. 

The monstrous mech barely twitched. The only indication Ratchet had that he was even functioning were the dull purple biolights, deep beneath the plating where his wires and cables drowned them. Between the transformation seams Ratchet could see them pulsing a sluggish, weak glow.

Ratchet placed a cube from his subspace beside Megatron’s helm. The energon lit up the darkened space with an eerie pulse, leaving them bathed in blue. 

“If I tried to lecture you, I’d be here ‘til I rust.” Ratchet moved with slow purpose, lowering himself beside the downtrodden warlord. Pulling his knees up, Ratchet stared out into the Valley where fat droplets of acid rain were dribbling from the sky. “You’ve got an alright view. Can’t imagine it’s very comfortable.”

Silence passed between them. The acid drizzle turned into a downpour, and Ratchet resigned himself to sit there until it passed; or until Megatron awoke and kicked him out. 

“How did you find me?”

As he glanced over to the deathly still mech, Ratchet thought he saw the delicate glow of purple optics on the cave wall. He returned his gaze to the rain. “Your dark energon signature is unique enough to pick up if you know what to look for. Too bad nobody else seems to know how.”

Megatron didn’t rise to his bait, though Ratchet was unsure what he’d even have done if he had. The war was over. Megatron was in exile. The fact it was self imposed meant nothing; there was just no point in starting an argument. 

And yet Ratchet couldn’t just stop talking. “I hate you, you know that?”

Greeted by silence, Ratchet continued on. “Not for starting the Primus forsaken war. Not for nearly slagging me too many times to count. Couldn’t give less of a hellhound’s left ball bearing about that scrap.” The only indication Megatron was listening was the slightest tilt of his helm. Ratchet couldn’t stop the glyphs if he tried, “How can you live with the fact they trusted you?”

Megatron still didn’t answer. 

“How did you look Starscream in the optic every orn, four million years later, knowing he trusted you to lead them out of the pits? Shockwave trusted you to be righteous. The daffy mech gave his hands and face for you.” Silence. “Soundwave followed you even through your descent. You went power mad, vicious, intent on Optimus instead of equality. How do you live knowing they trusted you, and you failed them?”

“Orion.”

Ratchet turned so sharp his neck cables kinked. Gritting his dentae, all he could manage to grind out was, “What about Orion.”

“Orion. I was intent on Orion. Not Optimus.” Megatron was finally shifting, his frame unfolding and sliding into a new position. He knelt beside the cube of energon, but refused to meet Ratchet’s optics. 

And for some reason, that was the last straw for him. 

Ratchet jumped to his pedes, arms thrown up. “If you had even bothered to talk to him you would have seen Orion was still there! Optimus never stopped being Orion, but you sure as hell stopped being the Megatron you used to be!”

“Don’t be stupid, medic,” Megatron rumbled, optics downcast. “Optimus changed as much as I did. You know he was never the same after the Matrix took him from us.”

“Don’t you dare act like you knew him like I did.” Ratchet crosses his hands, throwing them down by his sides, pedes shuffling with the discomfort of their situation. “You don’t get to act like you  _ knew _ him-“

“Why don’t I?” Megatron’s dark optics finally came to meet Ratchet’s bright ones. He looked haggard, tired. Like he were even older than Ratchet in that moment. “I met him. I ignited him. I soothed him. I loved him, even. You cannot say I did not know him, medic, not when I tasted him in the same ways you did.”

“You gave up on peace,” Ratchet snapped back, servos curled into fists at his sides. “Optimus never gave up on that. He never gave up on  _ you.” _

“Lecturing me won’t bring him back.”

Those words hurt more than a blaster shot. Ratchet fell to his knees, realizing just how right Megatron was. So instead of throwing back another accusation, he sat back down. This time he let his helm rest against his knees. 

“Sad bucket of rust, aren’t I?” Ratchet murmured, curling his arms around himself. “Can’t let the past go either. No better than you are.”

They shared the silence until the rain pitter pattered to a stop. When it did, Ratchet rose to his pedes without words, and transformed.

Only when Ratchet was gone did Megatron pick up the cube.

* * *

Ratchet spent too many joor pouring over his interaction with Megatron. His duty was to his patients, his attention and his focus dedicated to their healing. He knew that. And still, instead, he lamented. The fact that he allowed himself to spend any amount of time on Megatron was what really needled at him.

Megatron was the mech who had single handedly ruined his functioning, started a civil war spanning four million years, was the source of more trauma Ratchet had suffered since he’d graduated.

And yet, what really upset him was how Megatron was the only other mech who was suffering from the loss of Optimus in the same way he was.

* * *

The next time Ratchet came to find Megatron was during the day. Hadeen beat hot down on his alt mode, so hot in the Valley of Death that his paint bubbled in particularly long stretches. He hated himself for the fuel and coolant that rested in his cab, and despite the efforts he put into hating Megatron, the steely medical coding that reared its ugly head whenever an unfortunate spark was dangled in front of him wouldn’t allow him to walk away.

Ratchet found Megatron standing on an overhang that looked down at the Valley, unmoving.

“Here.” He dropped the load next to Megatron. Fuel and coolant enough for a quartex, so maybe he wouldn’t have to come back anytime soon. 

He didn’t know why he stayed. 

“The cities look strong,” said Megatron after several kliks of silence.

“Could almost be a compliment.” Ratchet scowled and crossed his arms. His body turned, hunching slightly. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Megatron was posturing. He had to be. Megatron would never turn down an opportunity to gain an advantage, he told himself. His subroutines continued to attempt a deploy of his weapons, his HUD redlining Megatron’s form and labeling it “THREAT” in big red glyphs. 

As Ratchet made an attempt to calm his ill-patched battle protocols he missed Megatron’s approach. Upon a tentative servo resting against his forearm, dangerous looking claws glinting in the corner of his optical feed, Ratchet lashed out, striking Megatron across the chest. 

Adrenaloids pulsed through his lines, the panic rising in the back of his processor. He’d lashed out at the enemy. He had struck Megatron without hesitation, and he pulled his forearms up, to defend himself against backlash. 

Instead, Megatron took a step back. 

_ Please, _ Ratchet begged, his fans whining with the stress of his panic,  _ don’t show me pity. _

Megatron turned away, his gaze falling back on the cities, his back facing Ratchet. “Thank you for the fuel,” he murmured, and clasped his servos behind his back. 

Ratchet ignored him. He transformed and backed off the cliff, racing back to Iacon.

* * *

It wasn’t until later, in his air conditioned office, did Ratchet realize that Megatron had displayed himself as  _ vulnerable _ when Ratchet had lashed out.

Megatron had turned his back on him, exposing a blind spot in order to ease Ratchet’s battle protocols. Megatron wasn’t interested in attacking him. 

_ Not yet, at least, _ his processor provided. The thought tree expanded over how many ways Megatron could be using this as a way to lower his carefully kept guard, to get under his plating. Ratchet resolved to keep himself on his pedetips. 

He would not lower his guard. He couldn’t. 

It didn’t matter, Ratchet told himself. He wouldn’t have to deal with that bag of rusty bolts for a while. With all the fuel he’d delivered, maybe Megatron would just get eaten by a pneuma-lion instead. That, at least, would be the tyrant’s own damn fault, and Ratchet’s medic protocols wouldn’t make a peep. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for the attempted rape tag in this chapter as well as drug use. This is the only place it will be used, and there is no rape depicted.

Ratchet didn’t make a habit of getting cratered regularly.

He didn’t. No matter what First Aid or Jazz thought.

Sipping his engex, Ratchet tried not to think. Definitely not about Megatron, and definitely not about Optimus, but mostly Megatron.

The damn hunk of scrap hadn’t made as much as a peep since Ratchet’s delivery. Not that that was bad. Very good, in fact. It had, however, been nearly a quartex since his care package. Which meant he’d likely have to go and do it all over again. The back of his processor itched at the thought of Megatron going hungry. He reached up to scratch it absentmindedly.

Damn medic protocols. Wouldn’t even halt for his worst enemy.

Except as time went on, Ratchet stopped thinking of Megatron as his worst enemy. He had been, with Optimus to pit against him as a monument of purity and a foil to Megatron’s… well, everything. Eventually thinking of Megatron as just another soul lost in the seas of their crushing war seemed more right than not.

Two more drinks in, Ratchet gave up on not thinking about Megatron, because he’d already failed miserably.

“Two of whatever he’s having,” a stranger said as they took the seat beside Ratchet, a thumb jabbed in his direction. Ratchet didn’t take particular notice until the mech placed his servo atop one of the drink, and slid it across the space between them.

“There’s younger, prettier mecha here, kid,” Ratchet grumbled, slamming the rest of his drink. He reached over for the offered one anyway. “But thanks for ordering for me.”

“Nobody else looks like they need a distraction as much as you,” said the mech, grinning in Ratchet’s direction. He was swirling his drink with a straw, then leaned forward to pinch it through his intake vent.

Ratchet didn’t deny that. He sipped at his drink and mused on how he looked; ‘hot mess’ was what came to mind.

“Hey, at least take it as flattery if nothing else,” the mech hummed, “Everyone likes to feel wanted, right?”

That hit Ratchet a little harder than he anticipated. He stared into the purple whorls of his drink and slumped down. He lost the mirage of togetherness he always had to keep taped over himself.

“Yeah,” he murmured, staring deep into the drink, “You’re right.”

Ratchet downed his drink in several gulps. “Come on,” he said, sliding off his stool. He grunted as his pedes hit the ground and he came to the realization he was much less sober than he’d thought. His new companion steadied him with a firm servo to his bulky pauldron.

The mech didn’t say anything as he helped Ratchet to the door. He didn’t need to. Ratchet didn’t want his words, just his steady hand; which kept creeping lower than it had been before.

Though he was sure he hadn’t had nearly enough engex for it, Ratchet was soon stumbling as his companion helped him out the door. He had to lean his weight almost entirely on the other mech.

 _Something is wrong_ , Ratchet thought, just as the mech turned him down the alley right outside the bar. “What…” Ratchet’s intake wouldn’t make any more noise than that. He realized belatedly he was being downright dragged, and then pushed up against the wall of the bar. “Wait-“

“Shh, don’t worry, I’ll make you feel good.”

Alarms went off in Ratchet’s helm. His overactive battle protocols roared to life, but his body wouldn’t heed his commands. Dread crept through his fuel lines like ice as he realized he didn’t have any weapons to defend himself with, and he suddenly hated the peace time addendum that had stripped them all of their onboard weapons. Ratchet slumped against the wall, pressed there as the mech leaned into him with servos on his waist. He struggled, but the pressure in his hydraulics lacked any strength. He was trapped.

Ratchet engaged his FIM chip to escape the charge. Even as the excess left his frame, he was still sluggish and uncoordinated. At the top corner of his HUD blinked the words _‘fuel contaminant located.’_

The glitch. He’d drugged him, had probably slipped something in his drink when he’d passed it over. Ratchet trembled with the realization he was helpless. He couldn’t fight back, there was no one on the street, he could barely talk.

This was going to happen.

Ratchet stopped struggling. He went limp, forcing the mech licking at his neck to hold him up. The fact that the mech cared nothing for it, didn’t even skip a beat, had Ratchet’s tank rolling.

It didn’t matter that he would have likely gone for a frag willingly. This mech didn’t care, had never cared. He wasn’t interested in Ratchet’s consent.

Ratchet wondered what he had ever done that deserved the horrors he’d endured. He wondered if this was just another unfortunate act, or if he was being punished. Ratchet didn’t pray. He made it a habit not to rely on Primus for anything, but he did ask, this once, _‘Why?’_

Ratchet heard the stranger’s modesty panel transform away. He could hear every small sound, every movement, every brush of their metal. He shuttered his optics. There was only so much that he could handle, and if he couldn’t stop it then he wouldn’t watch.

Weight was lifted from his frame, and Ratchet crumpled. He opened his optics to the fuzzy sounds of clanging metal, his gaze fixating on the hunched, dark figure over his assailant.

Ratchet stared, shocked and dizzy. He watched as talons dug into his assailant’s chest, ripping seams open with tubes and wires spilling out. Sparks sputtered above the mech’s frame, energon dribbling over his sides.

The glow of the energon bounced against the vigilante’s frame. Ratchet choked. “Megatron?”

The enormous frame halted, frozen in place. Slowly, his helm turned to look over his shoulder. His pauldrons sagged, and he merely went back to ripping the would-be rapist apart.

“Megatron…” Ratchet stumbled forward, only to land on his knees. He crawled, having given up on forcing his motor relays into action. A sharp pain struck out in his forearm. He ignored it. “Megatron!”

Megatron whipped around, a massive servo coming over Ratchet’s intake. His palm was so large his servo wrapped almost the entire way around Ratchet’s helm. “Silence, doctor. You would be labeled an accomplice.”

Ratchet’s optics went wide as he soaked in the sight of Megatron. He was drenched in energon. His lips were painted blue, his servos stained.

“You’re cannibalizing him,” Ratchet hissed once he was released. “You- you monster-“

“Would you rather he had shoved his filthy spike in you?” The words drew a certain coldness around Ratchet, reminding him of the gravity of what he had escaped. “He is detritus. He is meant to fuel those around him. It is better than what he would do. What he has done to many others, I’m sure.”

Ratchet covered his own intake, the urge to vacate the fuel residing in his frame strong.

“Did you follow me?” Ratchet demanded. He was trembling. His plating rattled on his protoform; every part of him wanted him to get away from the mech hunched over the body of his assailant. Instead he reached forward, grabbing Megatron’s pauldron. “Answer me!”

He was snatched by the wrist. Megatron returned to face him, rising to his pedes. He lifted Ratchet as if he were weightless, forcing him to his weakened feet. “No. It was a coincidence. Come with me, you’re weakened.”

“Don’t touch me!” Ratchet shoved Megatron back. The enormous mech barely moved. Instead, the exile circled his waist with his arms, and hauled him up against his frame. Ratchet’s protests were ignored as Megatron transformed, Ratchet tucked neatly in his cockpit, and took off.

* * *

Ratchet howled the entire flight.

Megatron ignored him. He dumped his charge on the floor of his recently acquired living space and turned towards his small stash of supplies. Ratchet spied some welding patches, some syringes, vials of glowing material among the littering of almost-empty coolant cubes.

Dots connected. Ratchet whispered, “Is that syk?”

Megatron had come to the city for something. Random vigilantism seemed ludicrous, but drugs? For a homeless, starving mech living on the outskirts of civilization without two credits to rub together; it made no sense Megatron would hoard syk. Never mind that addicts rarely amassed that large a stash. “You’ve been using it to disorient the mechs you siphon fuel from.”

Silence greeted him. Megatron’s only answer was a welding patch held before the medic. “For your arm.”

His arm? Ratchet looked down, where he vaguely remembered a pain when Megatron had been feasting on his assailant. A slice along the edge of one arm panel delved deeper into the protoform between two slates of his armor. Energon had already dried down his wrist, though the cut glowed with oozing fuel.

“I’m fine,” he spat, rising to his pedes. He slapped the hand offering the patch, and threw himself off balance in the process.

Megatron caught him. That made Ratchet even angrier.

“Get off of me!” He shoved back, pushing himself against the wall. The motor relays in his knees chose that moment to give out on him, and he slid down the wall. The drug he’d been slipped was still running rampant in his systems. “Why couldn’t you have left me to rust in peace?”

“I could say the same to you.” Megatron knelt down and pressed the welding patch into Ratchet’s servo before he retreated. The massive mech puttered around his space, as if he were trying to look busy. It lasted only a few breems before he chose a space to sit beside his supplies, and powered down his optics.

Ratchet sat in silence until he was certain Megatron wasn’t watching him. He slapped the welding patch over his arm and made quick work with the medical torch within his servo. Even when he was finished he didn’t move.

He had to ask. “Why do you use syk?”

Megatron’s optics powered back on. Of course he didn’t recharge. “So that they forget me. It’s better that way. To be forgotten.”

Ratchet’s temper reared its ugly head at that. “You want us to forget you, hunh? Why? So you can come back with a vengeance and swallow us with your hatred and your tyranny? Nobody is ever going to forget what you’ve done, Megatron. Nobody. You’re going to go down in cybertronian history as one of the most vile mecha ever constructed. You're _never_ going to be forgotten.”

Megatron hung his helm, accepting Ratchet’s anger. The air was thick with the medic’s rage, and his hurt. Megatron didn’t look at him as he said, “Let them remember my evils, for that is what I have shaped them with. Let the shadow of my tyranny stretch across the deserts of my compassion. Empty you will find my wells of mercy, that I now must drink from.”

The poetry stilled Ratchet’s temper. He sat, mulling over the words Megatron had offered him, and came up empty.

The poetry of Megatron had been renowned, before he had forsaken Cybertron. His poems had been published anonymously and been celebrated by all casts. His excellence in rhyme and rhythm had brought together all manner of supporters for change, later also brought by his essays and speeches, and the emotion he tied into them. In fact, this one reminded Ratchet of one of Megatron’s earlier poems, about feeding “them” his anger and nursing them with the injustices done to him.

It was solemn, now, instead of hateful. The passion that had boiled in Megatron’s every word had become somber. His glyphs felt heavier, softer even. They felt gray.

“It isn’t finished yet,” Megatron said, barely above a whisper. “I’ve had little to do besides think of my past, medic. As well as my future. I do not wish them to forget what I have done, only that they let me fade. If I am forever to be the nightmare that is told to make sparklings mind, then so be it. All I ask now is to be left to disappear into obscurity.”

The desire to have the last blow fueled Ratchet’s thoughts. There was a lot he could say. He could tell Megatron he didn’t deserve to disappear into obscurity, to keep himself in exile where he would never be tried for his crimes. He could tell Megatron how every day he wallowed in his own pity was a day he was denying the justice of every bot he’d struck down.

Instead, he said nothing.

Instead, he took notice of the welding patches littering Megatron’s frame. He saw the rust creeping over them, some patches old enough they were bent against the wounds beneath them. Medical protocols raged to the surface of his crowded processor, exclaiming _fix fix fix fix fix._

Ratchet didn’t preface his actions with words. He didn’t need to explain his actions. Not to Megatron, and certainly not to himself. The medic joined Megatron across the room, and reached for one of the old patches.

“Sorry state you’re in,” he muttered as he transformed his servo into a precision welder and made quick work of the patches. He peeled them all off, one by one, until he was faced with the rust-riddled frame of the tyrant before him. “You let yourself get this bad?”

Megatron didn’t answer. He turned his helm away, palm coming over the worst of his rust wounds, over his other arm. Ratchet took note that it was right over the panel his fusion cannon had connected to.

As Ratchet unsubspaced a medkit he kept on himself for emergencies, words came to mind. He hated himself for it, but they came out anyway, “Through the balm of justice we may heal the decay beneath our pedes.”

Silence persisted. Ratchet burned away at the rust infection that was slowly, but surely, eating Megatron alive. Each infection site was scorched, and then slathered in nanite gel, before a new weld was place over top.

“Take off the welds every orn. Let your wounds breathe,” he muttered, refusing to meet Megatron’s optics. “I’ll bring you nanite gel. This level of rust infection can only be healed through continuous and attentive maintenance.”

Megatron let the words simmer before adding his own. “I never took you as one who read my poetry.”

“I was more of a fan of your racier works. But I have optics. I know how to read. Was hard to _avoid_ your work for quite a while.” Ratchet brushed something imaginary off his hands. He wasn’t sure how to proceed, or how to go about leaving. He just knew he didn’t want to linger. Even as he thought that, when he tried to stand he was reminded of the drug still crippling his hydraulics.

“You are in no shape to leave, medic. Perhaps it is best if you rest here. In the morning I can leave you in a familiar neighborhood.”

“Not on those fresh welds you won’t,” Ratchet groused. A scowl made its home along his features. He crossed his arms and made a point to make the loudest sound possible as he rolled into a new position; just to get the point across that he wouldn’t be moved. Despite how he was certain he wasn’t able to anyway.

Curiosity flexed in Megatron’s field, something Ratchet hadn’t gotten a teek of since he’d found the tyrant. He scowled deeper, and said, “Guess I’ll just have to sit and watch you. To make sure you’re not up to anything dastardly. And to keep you from dying.”

Instead of responding, Megatron’s engine rumbled, and Ratchet found himself staring at the Megatron’s back.

Even after Ratchet was certain Megatron wasn’t faking it, he couldn’t recharge.


End file.
